BPRD: Atavism
by Zipper Whippersnapper
Summary: Regression has an interesting way of bringing new things to light - they were here, in this place, although they knew not where it was or why they had come here. The continuing tale of Gregory Langelaan.
1. Chapter 1

_Hello there. It's been a while, hasn't it? Thanks to Izzy, though, I've been asked (see: threatened) to continue writing "BPRD: The Insectoid Man." To be honest, I really don't want to continue that story anymore; I lost sight of the plot and it'd be too much pointless effort trying to corral and rewrite the chapters. Instead, I'm going to be writing something new – think of it as a companion fiction to Izzy's fanfic "Welcome to the Masquerade," except this will be focusing solely on Gregory's side of the story._

_If you have no clue what I'm talking about right now, I suggest you go and read "Welcome to the Masquerade," as well as my previous story "BPRD: The Insectoid Man." If you've already read both – ride on, adventurous reader. _

{—)K

The rain poured down outside; each drop of water pummeled the sodden ground and made a soft tapping noise, followed by a small splash as another raindrop fell into the tiny puddle it left behind. A cold, wet wind blew and drove the liquid projectiles against the side of an abandoned, silent warehouse. Windows darkened, the squat gray box of a building resigned itself to its preordained soaking and stood peacefully, without creaking or shuddering in the face of the storm. The roof held up, though rain still managed to leak in through half-opened windows and pool in small lakes within the building.

Inside the cold, damp confines of the warehouse, shapes moved in the inky darkness and climbed over one another, scraping and clicking quietly to one another. The faint tapping of the rain on the roof and the eerie moaning of the wind melded with the chittering; a rhythmic drone was produced. A bright flash of lightening lit up the space momentarily, revealing antennae that flicked lazily and claws that scratched at tile and other living things. The cold burst of whitish light also brought the faces of the things into sharp focus; black eyes stared at the outside environment, devoid of expression and movement.

The buzzing shifted in pitch and rose up to something like a drawn-out wail as wicked, hardened mandibles folded in against the sudden clap of thunder that followed. The monstrous shapes pressed closer together, wishing for the fear to go away. It didn't.

Why they were all here, none of them knew. Whatever sounds they made that cut like knives into the mindless buzzing couldn't adequately describe the feeling that had drawn them here, the same feeling that nudged at some dark corner of them and assured them that things were fine now – they were here, in this place, although they knew not where it was or why they had come here. Seeking answers and comfort, they bunched together in the center of the building, huddling together for warmth and the reassurance that something else was here in the darkness.

The wail died down into a lower, collective moan and then broke apart into soft clicking sounds. Somewhere in the pile of armored bodies, a shrill keen of something akin to sorrow split the silence creeping in on it; a short scuffle broke out in the darkness. Something else cried out as well, this time out of pain instead of sadness, and both squeaking voices faded away. The group pressed closer until they were almost one body, feeling fused with feeling, flesh against flesh, fear and bewilderment too fresh and raw for words doled out equally between them all.

The rain kept on pouring down.

{—)K

Orange and swollen, yet somehow more reassuring than the rain clouds it parted, the sun wearily trudged up into the sky. Stay beams of light found their way into the building and set to work drying up the scattered puddles inside; others scurried across the filthy ground and alighted on the ones who had sought refuge there. They were slumped together, silent and unmoving save for the stray flick of an antennae or the clicking of mouthparts.

A bird flew into the warehouse, its wings beating furiously and sounding impossibly loud in the stillness of the space. It landed on a nearby table and hopped across its top, beady black eyes bright as it scanned the wooden surface for food. Unbeknownst to the poor creature, another pair of black eyes also scanned that area for food – and found it.

Hissing, primal and high-pitched, alerted the bird to the danger just a second too late; a brown blur leapt onto the table and snatched the feathery form up. With mandibles that were seemingly unaccustomed to the activity, it tore into the small, plump body and wrestled the food back into its throat, and from there into its stomach. Meanwhile the table groaned under the unexpected addition of weight and finally sounded its death-knell, legs folding in and

cracking in two.

The commotion brought the rest of the group out of their stupor. They surrounded the one who had already fed and chattered hungrily, the sound growing louder by the second – the smell of blood and the sight of small chucks of flesh were almost too much to bear. Though everything else might have been foreign to them, the lust for nourishment, for tearing into something and eating it, was as real as it could be. The one who was sated could dimly recognize this; hastily they cleaned their mandibles and turned from one of their fellow refugees to the other, as if looking for the food that it had just consumed.

One of them, further in the back and closer to the door, clicked and stalked over to a wall opposite the table – a scent had caught their attention. Six clawed, armored feet clattered against the floor and met the plaster of the other surface. Gripping it, they hoisted the football-shaped body up and up until they reached their intended goal: the bird's nest, now unguarded and blissfully full of things that were white and hard and _food_.

One claw caught hold of the nest and yanked it back, sending the eggs flying. They crashed to the ground and cracked open, spilling clear and yellow fluid on the dirty surface. Before the one who had retrieved them could skitter over to the food, it had been smeared into a thin layer of inedible mess by the eager jaws of its fellows; angrily it hissed at them and was hissed at in return. This was not good. There had to be more food out here. Was that why they were here, for food?

Antennae clicked and the open space from which the first food had emerged grabbed their attention. An unspoken agreement was struck.

{—)K

_One last note before I go off to work on the next chapter – school and my various responsibilities (aka online roleplay games) may sidetrack me over the course of this fanfiction. Reviews encourage me, but don't be afraid to give me a kick in the ass through PM or comments if there's an unusually long gap between updates. Otherwise, I'll try to post at least one chapter every week. Hopefully._

_Until then,_

_-Zipper Whippersnapper_


	2. Chapter 2

_Two updates in one day…this is rare, but I'll run with it. _

_Just so you all know – alternating chapters are going to switch from 'real time' to flashbacks. An easy way to check is to see whether the majority of the chapter is in italics. If it is, it's a flashback chapter. I might end up specifying it some other way, but for now that's your best bet. In the words of online gamers everywhere – "nonlinear storytelling FTW." _

{—)K

_**I guess an introduction is in order, isn't it?**_

_**To be frank, I'm not very good at these things…I've gotten somewhat rusty as of late when it comes to social interactions. Maybe the best thing to do is hazard through it and hope that it makes sense. Yes, I think I'll do that.**_

_**My name is Gregory Langelaan; it's a decent name, in my opinion, though a bit hard to say. It's especially hard to say for me; my vocal cords aren't exactly structured the same way as a human's. I can still write pretty well though, if I grip the pen in both my hands, and typing's a breeze. It's just that I can't manage much besides various chattering and hissing noises. Not since I was, oh, about twenty or so.**_

_**Life was pretty normal back then. I was in college. I worked on getting a Master's degree in teaching, went to the occasional frat party and slept late on the weekends. Things were great, really they were.**_

_**Of course, that all changed when I began noticing that my skin was getting strangely thick and inflexible. My bones were getting fragile, too; in less then a week I'd broken my arm and fractured something in my leg. The doctor told me to stay off my feet—I did, but the bones continued to break and crack with the slightest motion. My skin hardened into a kind of armor, so to speak, and moving around got really hard. Eventually I just curled up painfully on the dorm sofa and stayed put.**_

_**Somebody found me there a few days later, when I'd realized that I couldn't get back up and began croaking for help. They screamed and ran away. That scared me…really it did. I was more frightened then, I think, then when the truck rolled up outside and a few people from a group called the "BPRD" took me away.**_

_**Nothing was more frightening, though, then when I caught a glimpse of my face while being carried past a mirror on a stretcher. My skin had turned this dull orange-black color, and it was gravelly and rough, like concrete. It's nice and smooth now, like a ceramic plate, but then I have to admit that I looked bad. My eyes were also messed up; they bulged out like blackened apples from my eyelids and rolled around like a crazy person's. At least, that's what they told me later, when things had calmed down and I was beginning to understand it all.**_

_Writing things down helps me remember them better, I've found. Well, they don't exactly help me remember – I forget them just the same as if I didn't write them down. At least now I have the note card to read over, so it's almost like I never forgot anything. Almost._

_I don't think anyone's really noticed my absentmindedness…I mean, things are so complicated now that the BPRD agents can hardly afford to sit down and rest, let alone talk to friends. There's just so much to remember nowadays; things have gotten crazy since Jink gotten crazy and left. 'Got,' I mean – 'got' or 'went' would be grammatically correct here. Anyway, after she left we were put under the…power? Jurisdiction? Whatever it's called…I forgot that too. We've got to do whatever the higher-ups at Homeland Security or wherever it is…sorta forgot that too. I just do what they tell me to, really, and that's it. Nobody's noticed anything with me and commented on it, or if they have I've forgotten that too…_

I don't want to forget. Please. Don't let me forget. It'll be lonely if I forget. I don't want to forget. It'll be lonely…

_It's pretty lonely, to tell the truth; I don't think I've talked to Johann or Kate in a few weeks. Maybe even a month – they've just been so busy, you know? Kate's got all that paperwork, Johann's doing something in Munich – wait, no. It was burnt down – I can't believe I forgot that. He's been coping with his home city being destroyed _– gone!_ The whole city's _gone_! How did I forget that? – that's why we didn't talk. I didn't want to intrude, you know? It's got to be that…but it's almost like the more time I spend away from them the more stuff I forget. While working, you don't really talk to anyone. Just in – out, bag – tag, there you go you're done, onto the next one Mr. Gregory. 'Mr. Gregory'…ha ha. 'Agent Langelaan' will be next…_

_The little ones were basically the only people that I got to regularly see and talk to when I get back home to base after an assignment. Just them…oh. The ootheca, it hatched. That's what I'm talking about. There were four of them – all white and squishy at first, but they grew bigger and got their exoskeletons after the first few days. They weren't much to talk to, really, but they were good listeners – they can't talk, you know? Well, they couldn't. I don't know what they can do now – the BPRD or somebody took them away after a while. They couldn't really speak, or whatever I do that passes for speaking. Let me try to remember what they said…_

_I should tell Abe or someone, I think. This isn't normal forgetting or absentmindedness – it's almost like there's a suit of armor with my brain inside and someone's turning the screw; thoughts are harder to finish and start, like there's something holding them back. Putty, maybe, or whatever mental equivalent there is of putty. Since the Vault, and faking, things are steadily getting worse. But I guess they've been getting steadily worse for everyone, haven't they? Yeah – bad times all around, and all…_

_Wait…what was I going to tell them? I've forgotten. Let me think. Something about Jink, maybe? Oh yeah – I'm glad for her that she got out of the BPRD when she did; you know how dangerous things have been here, you know. The mortality rate of agents has been high…_

_Wait. Wait – is she gone? Oh god, did they put her in the Vault again? I can't remember; they put her in once, then they out her in again, and is she still in there? She can't be in there still – she'd be eighteen right now. It's been years, and they let her out at eighteen, right? I have to check._

_Yeah. She's out…oh thank god. I thought I forgot that one too, and there's no way there isn't nothing wrong with me if I forgot that…wait, is that right grammar? Correct grammar, I mean, and no, it isn't. Maybe I should tell someone._


	3. Chapter 3

_For some reason, I'm already feeling that my chapters are lacking something. I blame it on the weather and the distinct lack of good techno music to listen to while I type this up. Anyway, this is yet another chapter in this little story I've got going. Who knows? It may be that I actually get a recognizable plot developed this time._

_Many thanks to Izzy and RDG for reviewing._

{—)K

The sun beat down angrily on the first one to warily poke their sinuous antennae out of the small hole in the side of the warehouse; with a squeal of displeasure, the sensitive feelers were pulled away from the unexpected heat and quiet hissing came from within. A quarrel immediately broke out, the adventurous one rapidly backing up into another curious figure in the shadows and knocking them over. Hissing, the two shapes spun, facing one another and snarling fragmented things that might have been syllables once, yet stopped short of being words. Around the squalling pair the others crept close, antennae flicking just out of harm's way and claws scratching tiny, parallel grooves into the filthy linoleum.

The problem of feeding was foremost in all of their minds, though they didn't know it. The basic reasoning and self-awareness required to know that had been absent when they had arrived in the rain, scared and bewildered, and was still nowhere to be found. All they knew, in that dim way that they _could _know, was that something was lacking, something that could be found in the same type of object as that ill-fated bird had been. They needed to find food – they had to tear into _something_ – and yet surprise at discovering the bright heat outside was preventing them from leaving and doing so.

Something else was blocking them as well; the square hole in the wall was too small to admit the elliptical bodies of the brown, insectoid figures. The one that had found the bird tried in vain to squeeze itself through the unyielding frame, only to be met with a painful squeezing force as its armor was pressed against the soft tissues underneath. Keening, it jerked out away, lost grip on the wall, and crumpled in a hissing heap of hunger and rapidly-diminishing discomfort. Within a few moments the pain and shock were forgotten entirely, though the problem still persisted.

In sudden, senseless anger one of the snarling, famished shapes spat and clawed at the hollow promise just out of reach. Wicked, thorny talons clawed at the window frame, bit – and tore the barrier right out of the wall.

The weathered, warped wood snapped on contact with the floor, scattering bits of plaster and insulation that had been broken off with it; other forms darted out of the shadows and assisted in its destruction with their own claws. The one that had broken the window frame chattered and tried to snatch its trophy back, only to bring the wrath of its already-ornery fellows upon it. One well-placed blow came down upon the relatively unguarded head, cleaving the flowing feelers from the skull; a thin torrent of watery-amber fluid erupted from the stumps and sprayed onto the attacker. Before the wounded one could strike back, the screech of the mob – already snarling and squabbling for the inedible wood – drowned them out.

Finally! Here was something to tear into.

{—)K

Unbeknownst to the deformed figures in their current frenzy of unknowing murder and rending claws, the soft musk of life drifted into the warehouse from the outside, borne on the wind that managed to wind its way into the warehouse through the slightly-enlarged window; something not of them, something warm and alive – very, very much alive – drew close.

The mob only realized this – the dim horror of recognition slowly creeping up on them, sliding over their eyes like gauze and turning their heads to something other than the fresh meat – after the pangs of starvation were lessened, and the corpse of their fellow was reduced to a sad, shattered collection of plates, scraped clean like a shed suit of armor.

Gingerly, one of the adventurous ones skittered over the debris that had been torn and crushed absentmindedly against the dirty tile; clawed feet skittered on plaster that crunched like snow until they finally found the wet grass and dug themselves into the soft lushness of the green material. Others followed, if only to taste the grass; it was soft and rent so easily in their jaws, but quickly became nothing but an acrid, innutritious pulp that filled the mouth of any unwise enough to try it. Hastily, it was spat out.

_Not _food.

{—)K

_Questions or comments on this chapter – or my writing style in general – are always appreciated; in fact, they're requested. As much as I like knowing that people like my fanfiction, I'd love to hear critiques or ideas of what may come next. ^,,^_

_Politely requesting feedback, _

_-Zipper Whippersnapper._


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